The equalizer
A delicate device, much too delicate to detail,
That matches the facility enjoyed by every male.
For every female pilgrim, caught short upon the trail,
Make no mistake about it, this is the holy grail.
I booked ahead for the first time today. It’s a shame, but I just can’t take the chance of getting stuck. When I first walked this Camino there was no booking at all. No private albergues, just the odd monastery and the municipals. And these weren’t always the most hospitable either. I remember the old, former two-classroom school, adapted as an albergue, men on one side, women on the other, one loo for each, and a primitive kitchen in the middle, where a cockroach (🪳) popped out of the plughole and said, “I live here.”
At breakfast this morning I heard familiar tones from a neighbouring table and thought, What is he doing here? From Downing Street to Rabanal? But no, instead of the golden locks, a bald pate. Just a posh Pom.
As I left the village a cock crew. I began a long climb upwards. And what a climb!
On the road below, I saw the Camino van carrying the luggage of the packless pilgrims who were passing me by. I am a purist, but today I envied them.
Half way up, I passed a lady standing up against a bush with her back to me. What was she doing, I wondered. Then I realized. She was using a device that allows a lady to remain standing. Rather indelicate to mention it, I know, but I do so only to illustrate the wide range of gadgetry available to the pilgrim. I refrained from saying, “Buen Camino”. But I’m sure that she said, like Francisco,
For this relief, much thanks.
And still I climbed, until at last, just a few hundred yards from the top, I reached the little village of Foncebadon and a welcoming bar where I had a coffee and a piece of real, homemade tortilla. Delicious! Also here were the German lady, Rona, and her dog, whom I first met just outside of León, and Danielle, from the albergue on my first night out of León.
At an earlier meeting, they had asked me how old I was, and when I told them, they asked if they could take my picture. I believe that I have achieved a certain fame as an Aged Curiosity. They always ask how I’m going. I think they’re a bit concerned that I may not make it.
Danielle had visited a famous masseuse in Rabanal. During the massage, the masseuse had detected a great sadness within and lifted it from her. She was quite overcome by this mystical experience. It wouldn’t have happened to me, but I believe it happened to her. I am a sceptical sceptic. Danielle lives in Portland, Oregon. She must have heard my son-in-law play bass.
This is a journey of such extremes. There are moments of suffering when I say, like Jack Hawkins in that famous film, “Madness, absolute madness,” and then there there are moments of joy when I sit and relax, and look around at these magnificent hills, even if they are marred somewhat by the wind turbines and the transmission lines, but then again, we have to have something to drive the coffee machines, don’t we?
Another kilometre up, and then the Cruz de Ferro, where pilgrims deposit the stones they have brought with them. I remember walking up a steep slope to deposit my stone 19 years ago, and now the mound of stones is no taller than I remember, but much, much broader. Somewhere under there was my stone. I deposited another one today, carried not from home, but just a few hundred yards away, and then sat for some time in silent contemplation, reluctant to move on. And many others were sitting in silence as well.
How many millions of stones and every one a pilgrim! A humbling experience.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
And then down a gentle slope to Manjarin where pilgrims were gathering around a coffee stand, and past the famous refugio, which years ago, the authorities had tried to close down because there were no facilities at all. My Aussie mate George and I had entered to the strains of the Hallelujah Chorus, and I wondered whether this was my Damascene moment on the road to Santiago, but as I waited for the following aria, the chorus began again. The bugger had been playing it all day on a circular tape. It wasn’t a sign from heaven after all.
And then I was climbing again, and there, ahead, must be the summit, next to the cell tower, for as Edna Everage screeched about Catholic Churches, “They always get the best positions.”
But like every summit, it was always just around the next bend. Eventually, I rounded the cell tower, and after another slight climb of a few hundred yards, I began to descend.
It was on this descent down a steep slope, rather perilous at times, that George and I had encountered an elderly Australian lady who talked and talked. Not as much as the Irishman, but enough that we had to make excuses and escape. She told us that her children had sent her on the Camino, and we understood why.
I could see Ponferrada in the distance, in a valley, and halfway down the slope I arrived at my destination, another Camino village, El Acebo de San Miguel. I am staying at Albergue la Casa Peregrino, a misleading name, and a rather new phenomenon, pilgrim quarters attached to a spar. I am sleeping in a dorm, but enjoying the rather luxurious facilities. I sit here overlooking the hills I have walked over today. This was a great day!
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